


Killing Time / To Say Nothing of the Dog 'Verse

by irisbleufic



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-25
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 12:50:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Old Terran video games were the stuff of legend.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Killing Time

**Author's Note:**

> By way of a drabble request, Speccygeekgrrl decided to pose the question, "How did Scotty stay sane on Delta Vega?" The result is that I wrote something much longer than a drabble that really betrays some of my own past geekery.

Old Terran video games were the stuff of legend: sure, there were plenty of simulations that reproduced all the classics with accuracy, but therein lay the problem. By all accounts, Montgomery Scott had long ago concluded that they were _too_ perfect. He'd played some of the later, hyper-violent 3-D ones and found them boringly glossy. His grandfather's stories of actually once having laid hands on the first Nintendo Entertainment System ever made were rife with tantalizing hints at what the genuine article had _really_ been like. Persnickety game cartridges all-too-easily outdone by a few specks of dust, which were best done away with by judicious blowing. Television connector cables that reserved the right _not_ to work at a moment's notice. Non-wireless controllers that required far more hand-to-eye coordination than actual finesse. Now, _that_ was more like it!

His assignment to Delta Vega had, at first, felt like relegation to nothing less than the mythical concept of Purgatory. The nearly abandoned Starfleet base was always chilly, no matter how high you kicked up the heat—and Keenser sometimes actually _complained_ about it being too warm. In his way. Deciphering the creature's communication methods had occupied his first three months, at which point Scott had got deeply, _profoundly_ bored and decided to loot the place for all it was worth.

He hadn't expected to find a cardboard box in one of the maintenance closets. 

Cardboard was still common enough on Earth, but it was rarely durable enough to withstand the rigors of intergalactic travel. After he'd got over his sneezing-fit, curiosity had kicked in. The box hadn't even been sealed shut; its flaps had simply been folded in on themselves in that quaint, yet satisfying fashion. Inside, he'd found a curious assortment of antiques, the main purpose of which had, he surmised, been amusement. The box of yellowing Trivial Pursuit cards copyright-dated to 2005, but they were by and far _not_ the oldest objects in the box. Under a sheaf of badly curled papers on which some kind of arcane score-keeping had taken place, plus your standard-issue chessboard, he'd found the Holy Grail.

He wouldn't have known what it was if it hadn't been labeled, but it was, and all its attendant wires and controllers appeared to be present. At least he _hoped_ they were. In addition to the two rectangular keypads, there were, mystifyingly, a pair of plastic guns modeled on a primitive design—also with cords attached. At first, his heart had sunk: a quick rummage in the very bottom had not turned up anything resembling a game cartridge. However, when he'd opened the Nintendo itself, there it was. The paper sticky-label was in astonishingly good condition. The name rang a bell, as his grandfather had been very insistent upon the point of _Mario this_ and _Mario that_.

Keenser had made a noise over Scott's shoulder that sounded like pleased recognition.

Getting the connector cables up to speed with what technology was at his disposal had been a chore, but Scott had somehow got there in the end. Much to his dismay, the key-pads were even more unruly than his grandfather had suggested; it had taken him a full twelve attempts just to sort out how the hell to get Mario (or Luigi, whichever he was playing—Keenser proved disturbingly adept from the outset) across even the smallest leaps safely. Amazing, how his stomach sank every time the tiny red figure fell into blue, cloud-flecked oblivion. It was the _sound_ that did it. After a while, he'd just turned that off and found it worked wonders for his concentration.

Lacking an instruction manual, Scott had figured out a lot by sheer accident—and by watching Keenser. He wondered what the game's creators had been smoking when they thought that hiding mushrooms in brick boxes emblazoned with question-marks would be just _ace_. Because, clearly, whoever had thought up this game had been stark raving mad. And that was just the plants with teeth and the invincibility-inducing stars. 

He was pretty sure that Tellarite hallucinogens hadn't yet been introduced to Earth.

He might never even have bothered with the plastic guns if he hadn't walked into Central Command one evening and found Keenser happily firing away at the screen, sound turned up full-blast. Scott watched for about forty seconds in stupefied fascination. And had Duck Hunt worked out in no time.

Keenser, as it happened, was a pretty fucking sore loser—who had _never_ tasted real duck, more's the pity! Scott assured him that he was _definitely_ missing out.

(It got his arse kicked on the final dungeon rounds of Mario. _Repeatedly_.)


	2. To Say Nothing of the Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some things it's best not to mention.

**1.**

"So there was all this weird shit down there, right?" Scott continued, his perpetually animated eyes alight with the memory. "I mean, Keenser and me, we found stuff you could probably get a pretty penny for most places in the Federation. Earth especially. Have you ever heard of a board game called Trivial Pursuit? At least I _think_ it must've been a board game. But anyway, all that was left was a set of cards with really tricky questions on 'em. I bet Mr. Spock wouldn't even know most of the answers."

Uhura raised an eyebrow, no doubt a bad habit she'd picked up sometime in the four weeks of proverbial hell that had been her affair with Spock. She should've left it where it had been since her student days at Starfleet: at bizarrely satisfying, intellectualized sexual tension. The real thing? Hadn't been bizarrely satisfying. It had been just plain _bizarre_. They'd fought a lot, usually about Jim. The last thing she'd expected was for Spock to start _defending_ the Captain and his decisions. _Captain Kirk says this_ and _Captain Kirk thinks that_ , sometimes in bed? What a turn-off.

"Why didn't you bring any of it with you?" she asked Scott, genuinely curious.

"No time," he said sheepishly. "But if we're ever back in the neighborhood of Delta Vega, I'll ask the Captain if we might pop off and grab it. Do you think he'd say yes?"

 _Not you too_ , Uhura thought, but she smiled anyway. There was an earnest openness about the engineer that she'd begun to find sort of endearing. Also, his accent was more comprehensible than she'd expected it would be and actually kind of hot.

"I'm sure you could ply him with a share of the profits," she suggested.

Scott beamed. "Well, of course! Time is money, after all." A fretful shadow briefly crossed his brow. "Although, I admit I'd be a bit hard-pressed to get rid of the most valuable item. Have you ever heard of the original Nintendo Entertainment System?"

"No, I'm afraid," demurred Uhura, smoothly, "but I'm sure Chekov has."

 

**2.**

"So where are we going?" Scott asked, peering curiously at the console. "Looks like straight-up cruising to me. The Captain must be bored right out of his skull."

"It was an _original_ Nintendo Entertainment System?" Chekov pressed, fascinated. If what the man had said was true, that machine was probably worth enough to fund shore-leave drinking binges for the rest of all their sorry lives. But he had to be _sure_.

Scott shrugged, lips quirking downward into one of those fascinating, over-exaggerated frowns. "Played like an original ought, if you ask me. There's just the right amount of lag-time on the controllers. The labeled part of the machine itself is a bit faded, which you'd expect after almost four centuries. I suspect the dry, cold air had a lot to do with preserving it. There's no labeling on the cardboard box, so I can't say who it belonged to. Why do you ask?"

"There have been some good knock-offs," said Chekov, grimly. "It is all we ever got in Russia. I have heard there are many on the Tellarite black market."

"Not surprising," Scott replied, reaching over Chekov's shoulder to adjust a knob that Chekov hadn't even realized needed adjusting. "There's very little you _can't_ get on Tellar. The drugs are fantastic. Have you ever tried—"

"Chekov, mind the navigation, will you?" said Sulu, rising for a stretch. "I need something to drink, and I don't want the Captain breezing through here only to find you two shooting the breeze."

"Oh, don't worry," Scott volunteered, quickly, sliding into Sulu's chair before Chekov could even respond. "I've got it sorted."

"Sure you do," Sulu said—but was apparently satisfied, and left.

Chekov grinned at Scott. "You have saved my backside, I think."

"Where I come from," Scott said, "the word is _arse_. Don't let anybody tell you otherwise. It even sounds better, doesn't it?"

The two of them laughed for a long time. 

Chekov could get used to this.

 

**3.**

"Wait," said McCoy, placing a hand on the drunken engineer's shoulder in order to slow him down. "It never turned up _anywhere_? Not even in pieces?"

"No," Scott said, forcefully blowing his nose, still clinging to the bottle of Tellarite vodka from McCoy's personal stash. He'd paid a lot for it, but then, he was no one to turn down a brother in need. There was something instantly likeable about the guy, and in the past few months, he'd only endeared himself to nearly everybody.

 _Has to be the accent_ , McCoy thought, turning the hand on Scott's shoulder into a patting gesture that was, he hoped, soothing. Maybe he shouldn't have said that.

"Maybe it turned up back on Earth, in somebody's front yard," he suggested, grabbing Scott a fresh tissue. He took the vodka bottle gingerly, downing another pull. "Maybe there was a little girl playing there who'd wanted a dog her whole _life_. Just waiting."

Scott smiled a little, choking out a sound that was more chirp than laugh.

"Yeah, who knows. I mean, there haven't been any fatalities since the early days of the technology, so—maybe it happened something like that." He sniffled, putting on a brave face. "At least that's what I'll be thinking _now_ , when I get depressed about it!"

McCoy grinned stupidly, his head starting to swim a little, and handed back the bottle.

"That's the spirit, Scotty. That's the spirit." Maybe he wasn't so bad at the whole shrink thing after all, and maybe it ought to involve alcohol a _little_ more often.

 

**4.**

It was rare, Scott realized, to get the whole crew in one place. Since they lacked anything better to do, at least for the time being, he actually _had_ managed to persuade the Captain to nip by Delta Vega in order to collect the loot. In addition to the contents of the first cardboard box, Commander Spock had managed to turn up a _second_ box that housed not only the chesspieces that went with the board, but also the rest of Trivial Pursuit. There had also been a stack of unmarked, ancient DVDs.

What better way to determine what was on them than arrange a movie night?

"I can't believe it," Sulu groused around a mouthful of popcorn. "Everything my grandmother told me is true. Did twentieth-century Terran chicks _really_ dig this?"

On the large screen before them, Rose gazed soulfully at Jack. Music swelled.

Uhura shifted uncomfortably where she sat, looking as if she'd rather be back in her quarters trying to translate a stray transmission they'd picked up earlier.

"I'd be willing to bet it wasn't just _chicks_ ," she muttered, stealing a surreptitious sidelong glance. With idle curiosity, Scott followed her gaze to where the rest of the crew were sprawled out on the floor in various stages of attentiveness. 

Chekov was so absorbed in the film that he hadn't spoken in at least an hour, his eyes round and luminous. Bones was busy with another bottle of vodka, making snide comments under his breath to anybody who'd listen—and Sulu occasionally chimed in with a clever and equally snide response. The Captain, on the other hand, was out like a light, his head lolling gently against Spock's chest. The Vulcan watched impassively, his head inclined ever so slightly toward Jim's hair where it brushed against his chin.

Scott shrugged and returned his attention to the screen. "According to the computer, it cleaned house at the Academy Awards in 1998. There had to've been sufficient audiences across both genders, _period_."

"Pathos holds powerful fascination for humans," Spock said, almost irrelevantly. At that moment, the Captain stirred irritably. The Vulcan slid an arm idly around Jim's middle, but whether it was to still or to soothe him, Scott couldn't tell. Whatever was going on there deserved to be left well enough alone.

"Pathos my _ass_ ," muttered Bones, offering the vodka to Sulu—who passed the bottle directly to Chekov. The young man took a drink, his eyes never leaving the screen.

 _They're not a bad lot_ , mused Scott, fondly. At his feet, Keenser murmured something in his sleep. A swift, teasing kick brought the alien back to consciousness.

Besides, he'd even begun to think of himself as _theirs_.


	3. Trivial Pursuit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all fun and games until somebody loses a chess match.

Spock had desperately wanted to blame the film, and for reasons beyond the obvious. From a standpoint of sheer lack of interest, he couldn't quite hold a grudge against the Captain for having fallen asleep: no, if _he'd_ been human and bored out of his mind, that would have been a reaction to _exceed_ logic. The trouble was that Kirk, so lately cautious of Spock's minimum preferred buffer of personal space, had done more in slumber than just breach the treaty. He'd sprawled all over it with reckless abandon.

The trouble was also that Spock hadn't minded. In fact, he'd found it rather pleasant.

There was, then, no blaming the film and certainly no blaming Kirk, personal-space invasion aside. Sleeping humans, he reasoned, couldn't help but land where gravity pulled them. Therefore, it had only (barely) been logical to place an arm around the Captain in order to keep him from hitting the floor. And Spock was fairly certain that nobody had wanted him awake and irritable, not at such a crucial moment in the film's plot. As lamentable as the piece was, it had been a _fascinating_ glimpse at twentieth-century cinematography at its most ostentatious. Chekov's reaction thereto had been the perfect accompaniment. How often did one get the chance to observe both subject and stimulus in such unguarded circumstances?

Kirk's hair had kept brushing against his chin, a curious sensation. He'd smelled of salted popcorn, Tellarite vodka, and just a hint of Saurian brandy. Beneath that, there'd been something even more faint and equally as compelling: the scent of the Captain himself. Spock had learned to distinguish the scents of any number of Terran personal higiene products; he'd even out of necessity learned to tolerate using them himself. Much to his annoyance, on Earth, imports from Vulcan were few and far in between. Usually, his mother's care packages had been waylaid by customs.

Spock's enjoyment had lain not so much in this curious coctail of olfactory signals, but in the knowledge that he and the Captain were, indeed, learning to trust each other, whether they were conscious of the impulse or not. That Kirk was, at his most vulnerable, willing to lean toward Spock as a source of warmth and anchorage could only bode well for their partnership. In rare moments of irrationality, Spock no longer tended to envision the _Enterprise_ going down in fragmented flames.

Unless either his old self or some more Romulans decided to show up. There was always that. Which was the thought hovering right beneath the one he was having at the moment, which was roughly: _I have no idea how I'm going to get out of this, not least because my mind's scarcely been on the game._

"Checkmate," said Kirk, looking very pleased with himself, as if he felt he'd secretly had the advantage all along now that they were back to a traditional chessboard rather than a three-dimensional one.

Spock had to concede that it might _almost_ be true. The format was scarce beyond Earth's borders, and how could they have refused Mr. Scott's generous offer? He could have gotten a reasonable amount of money for the antique board games and video game console—but, in the end, he'd decided to donate them to the _Enterprise_. There had been an audible sigh of relief when he'd drunkenly made the announcement, most notably from Chekov. Even Sulu had visibly perked up.

"Yes, Captain," Spock replied, inclining his head only so far as his pride would permit. "It would appear that you've won for the first time in nearly a fortnight, unless my recollection proves faulty."

Kirk grinned and began clearing up the pieces. "No hard feelings, right? That was a fan _tas_ tic game. When was the last time we went at it for more than three hours?"

Fleetingly, Spock was grateful that none of the more sarcastic crew-members were present. "I couldn't say," Spock admitted, neatly folding up the board in the wake of Kirk's nimble fingers. "Do you require rest?" He hadn't intended for his voice to carry a hint of challenge, not this time, but there it was.

The Captain shrugged and dropped two fistfuls of chesspieces into the box. "I couldn't say," he echoed with deceptive mildness. "What about you, Spock? Don't you _ever_ sleep? And don't you go off on one of your meditation tangents, either: you can't convince me that's the only thing you do when you're alone in here."

Spock felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle, not unlike the sensation he'd felt when Kirk's head had hit his shoulder, then lolled down to his chest. "As a matter of fact, it isn't: sometimes I take my meals alone."

"Yeah, I've noticed." Kirk just _looked_ at him, as if he expected an explanation.

"Ever since my...falling-out with Lieutenant Uhura, I admit I've preferred—"

"That was some falling-out," said Kirk, but without any hint of malice. "We could hear her the whole way down on the bridge. Just what else can she do with that prodigious breath capacity, anyway?" He looked instantly sorry for the last bit.

"Sing," said Spock, flatly. "Slightly off-key."

"Oh, I knew that," said the Captain. "Her former roommate told me."

Spock fought the urge to smile, which Kirk didn't seem to believe he was capable of doing anyway. "You and Gaila were...familiar?"

"Once in a while. Like you and Uhura?"

"Never at Starfleet," Spock said, fighting the urge to bite the inside of his cheek. Infuriating, how easily the Captain could provoke him to irritation. Not that Kirk believed he was capable of feeling _that_ , either. Anger, certainly, but nothing so petty as _annoyance_. Spock wasn't going to let him know it, either. "And not anymore."

Kirk raised his eyebrows again, but if it was another challenge, Spock couldn't tell.

"Captain?"

This time, Kirk rolled his eyes. "For the hundredth time, I'm—"

"Yes, Jim?" Spock let himself smile. The Captain— _Jim_ —wouldn't even notice.

"I was just thinking that I'm not actually very tired." Jim pantomimed a stretch, and when his hands came down again, they slammed something solid and rectangular down on the tabletop. "I'm kind of sick of chess, to be honest with you. How about a little variety?" He rattled the box of Trivial Pursuit cards. "Best of twenty?"

"Ten," Spock countered, wondering how he'd failed to notice the fact that Jim had obviously smuggled the cards in the chess set's box. "I have some work to finish in—"

"The lab or wherever can wait, Mr. Jack-of-All-Trades. As a gesture of good will, I'll let you ask first," Jim said, sliding the box across the table. He folded his hands in front of him, but Spock knew they wouldn't remain still for long.

"Very well," said Spock, trying his best to avoid Jim's gaze as he removed the lid from the box. It didn't work. They stared at each other for a few seconds, and Spock struggled with removing the first card. Pointedly lowering his eyes, Spock slid it into the middle of the stack and drew another. "Which color would you prefer?"

"Each one stands for a different category," Jim explained. "Scotty claims the key to what's what is shuffled up in there somewhere, but I think he's lying. The answers are always on the reverse. Just ask one at random."

Spock nodded, reading off the first phrase his eyes fell on. "How many furlongs to a mile?" _Easy, that's far too easy. Even_ he'll _remember that it's eight_. Spock flipped the card over, just to double-check himself. Pleasing, to know that his command of historic Terran measurements was still sharp.

"Eight. Is that the best you can do? Give me the card."

Spock gave him a questioning look, but handed it over anyway.

"That's the best way to keep score. If you get the question, you keep the card."

"Fair enough," said Spock, sliding the cards back to him. "Your turn, Captain." Spock smiled again, awaiting Jim's reproach. It never came.

"What's the fastest swimming marine mammal?" Jim fixed him with another unblinking stare that was equal parts interest and...something else. It was distracting.

 _On what planet?_ Spock shoved the retort as far to the back of his mind as it would go, willing himself to concentrate. Not dolphins: that was the red herring, too obvious, too present in common Terran memory. Not porpoises, either, and besides—none of the calculations worked out. Something much larger and stronger...

"Orca," said Spock, feeling somewhat smug as the word rose serenely to the surface of his mind. "I believe you commonly call them Killer Whales."

"You had me worried for a few seconds there," Jim said, handing him the card with a congratulatory wink. "Come on, give me something difficult."

"As you wish." Spock drew a card and scanned the questions judiciously. He was somewhat astonished to realize that he didn't know the answers to somewhere around a third. "What western state led the U.S. in percent increase in population from 1980 to 1989? " _So very insular. No wonder this particular amusement didn't survive_.

There was an unmistakable thrill in watching Jim's eyes flash with uncertainty before sinking back into cold, careful calm. "It's got to be one of the western states," he said, suddenly relaxing. "I'm going to guess Utah, for obvious reasons."

"The Mormon phenomenon of the nineteenth through twenty-second centuries aside," Spock said, having to hide his pleasure not only at Jim's failure but at how utterly crestfallen he looked to realize it, "you are incorrect. Nevada is responsible."

"Close," Jim muttered. "Close. Give me the damn cards." He shuffled through them, businesslike, and came up with a card seemingly (but not, Spock knew) at random. "How many original seasons of _Gilligan's Island_ were TV viewers subjected to?"

Spock cursed inwardly. Television programming wasn't something he'd ever paid much attention to, not on _any_ planet. At least he needed only make an erudite guess. If the writers of the game had chosen such loaded words as _subjected to_ , then surely—

"Two."

The triumphant flash in Jim's eyes told him not only that he was wrong, but that he'd missed it by an incredibly narrow margin. "Nice try, but no cigars. It was three."

Before Jim could pass back the box, Spock reached across the table and took it from him, trying to ignore the way Jim's damp fingers had felt against his palm. _Nervous?_ Spock wondered, plucking a card from farther back in the deck just as Jim had done.

"What sport has the most folks on Sports Magazine's list of the nine highest-paid athletes of 1990?" Surely that was far enough before Jim's time that he wouldn't know. He didn't seem to be the pro-sports-following type anyway.

Jim tilted his head thoughtfully, then looked up. "I've been told that baseball and boxing were all the range back then," he said, then shrugged, as if to admit he was taking a gamble. "Let's call it the latter, just for a lark."

"Correct," Spock said, simply, sliding the card and the box across the table. Unexpectedly, Jim reached for them before he let go. Their fingers brushed again, somehow lingering, but not for long enough. Jim removed another card quickly, leaving Spock with both hands on the box.

"What three European countries begin with the letter A?"

Spock closed his eyes, trying to ignore another wave of sensation. 

"Albania, Andorra, Austria."

Jim pressed the card into his hands. Spock withdrew quickly and chose another from the end of the box that was closest to him, hoping that Jim wasn't about to comment on the flush he could feel rising in his cheeks. Bad enough, that it was _happening_.

"What’s the top selling campus snack according to the American Association of College Stores?"

"Chips ahoy?"

"Oreo."

"I'm sure that's not true _now_ ," Jim muttered, sighing. "What number are we on?"

Spock took a deep breath, as if his body intended to claim the air that the Captain had just released. "That was the eighth; two more remain. It's your draw." He shook himself mentally. " _Jim_."

His companion's voice was soft. "What sense is most closely linked to memory?"

Spock stared at his hands. _Checkmate_ , he thought. _Caught_.

"Spock?"

"Scent," he said slowly, "is the most effective trigger with respect to memory."

"Not just in humans?" asked Jim, with equal deliberation.

Spock tried to ignore his fingers, which wanted nothing so much as to reach forward—seeking warmth, seeking support. "Of course not. Although there are some races in which other senses are better suited to the purpose, both humans and Vulcans—"

"That's what I thought," Jim said, his fingers closing the distance. "You must have—"

"One more question," Spock reminded him, tempted to withdraw his hand. He didn't.

Jim didn't even blink at him, but didn't withdraw, either. "Fire away."

Spock swallowed hard. "The other evening—?"

"Oh, that," said Jim, his smile suddenly seeming almost timid. "Winner of the 1998 Academy Award for Best Picture. Depicts a fictionalized version of the events of April 14th and 15th, 1912 on board the _R.M.S. Titanic_. Am I close?"

 _Not close enough_ , thought Spock, and leaned in to meet Jim halfway.


End file.
